


Like My English Accent? (I Learn It from the Downton Abbey)

by lonelywalker



Series: Was Pepé Le Pew Not Available? [3]
Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fine briefly being a bit of a jerk, Head Injury, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22350874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: “I do not know the whole story. It's classified, redacted, shredded… But I know how it ends.”In which a CIA desk jockey and MI6's most overqualified taxi driver try to save London, Susan tries to have her cake and eat it, and Aldo tries to be himself (whoever that is).
Relationships: Aldo/Susan Cooper (Spy 2015)
Series: Was Pepé Le Pew Not Available? [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576633
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	Like My English Accent? (I Learn It from the Downton Abbey)

The wedding ring seems real enough. Gold, smooth, fitting her finger like it belongs there. But are wedding rings like churches, having to be consecrated before they ascend beyond just being jewelry and become a vow? Because there had been zero vows before she’d put on the ring this morning. Just a courier delivering a box that disappointingly didn’t explode thirty seconds after she opened it. 

Which isn’t to say that Aldo isn’t playing his role as a newlywed to perfection. If anything, Susan suspects he’s a little too perfect. In her experience, real newlyweds aren’t joyous and smiling and peppering each other with kisses. They’re tired and grouchy and worried about paying for that gigantic wedding neither of them really wanted but their moms insisted on planning… Or maybe Susan’s just been attending all the wrong weddings. 

She’d intended to play the whole thing low-key. All they actually have to do is get to London in one piece, not put on some kind of community theater. But Aldo might as well be some fairytale prince or charming billionaire who inexplicably (well not that inexplicably) falls for a fake-dowdy JLo or Keira Knightley. He’d been dressed by the time she rolled out of bed and heartily apologized for letting her sleep in, all in his flawless English accent, which was always a huge red flag that something was up in a big way. Susan had been tipped off the previous night that they’d be heading for England, but she hadn’t thought they meant “within the next twelve hours.” Then again, a lot about the previous night seemed a little bit too hazy for her liking.

“He proposed?” Nancy had squeaked over comms when Susan took a moment to duck into the bathroom.

This was when having absolutely everything she saw and heard recorded by the CIA would actually have been useful, rather than a complete invasion of privacy. “I wouldn’t say _proposed_ , more like… Proposed proposing? Or I did?” She clunked the back of her head against the closed door, hoping to jolt some clarity into her mind. 

“That doesn’t make any sense. Is there a big honking diamond on your finger? Because that’s why men give you big honking diamonds, Susan - so you’re pretty certain whether they proposed!”

Susan groaned, unnecessarily studying her fingers for absent jewelry. “He said… He said he wanted to spend his life with me, and always have my back, and go down on me when I’m seventy. I think?”

“I mean, those vows could use some work, but that’s a start.”

“I don’t know, after everything that happened last night with the bombs and his mom and brother, it’s all kind of a blur.” Susan sighed. “I can’t believe I barely remember what was probably the most romantic moment of my life. Me from a year ago is _livid_ right now! But, you know, I can’t be expected to remember everything that happens in bathtubs when… when _stuff_ is happening.”

She’d been able to track the exact moment Nancy’s “oooh!” at the enchanting romantic concept of making love in a bathtub with a handsome lover turned into “urgh” when she remembered that said handsome lover was still, nevertheless, Aldo. 

“Susan, you can’t believe anything men say during sex. Not even in bathtubs! They can’t be held accountable for their actions. Pretty sure they’ve written that into the Bill of Rights. And do you even want that marriage-kids-picket-fence life anymore?”

That last question is still ringing in her head as they sit at the airport, Aldo’s fingers interlaced with hers, his other arm tight around her shoulders.

“You’re being quiet,” she says, only partly to make up for the fact she’s been lost in thought for a noticeably long time.

Aldo kisses her temple. He even smells different when he’s being “Albert” to the outside world: different clothes, different cologne, his hair fluffed up rather than slicked down. “My apologies. I just feel… terribly insincere speaking to you like this. In fact I feel like an utter fraud.”

“Yeah, remembering indefinite articles exist is definitely a marker of insincerity.”

“You know what I mean. All this public school, Royal Air Force, privileged arsehole persona that my father calls a son.”

Susan isn’t too sure whether she wants to roll her eyes or genuinely sympathize. “If I learned to speak Italian without an accent, would you think I was being an insincere asshole? Come on. You can speak English without bringing a lifetime of baggage with you.”

His fingers slip out of hers so he can rub at the bridge of his nose while he surveys the many people lingering around the gate. For a moment, a flicker of recognition or interest passes over his face. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just-”

“Freaking out about being under your dad’s thumb again? I get it. At least until I find out he’s actually a sweet old man trying to help your career, and my ‘husband’ with the split personality and bosom fetish is the crazy one. Who would ever have guessed?” She follows his gaze to - predictably - a tall, slender Nordic-looking woman in a business suit, her platinum blonde hair elaborately braided.

Aldo’s eyes light up when he smiles, all his attention on her once more. “I do very much enjoy being your husband.”

“Yeah, well Nancy clearly only arranged this cover for us because she’s been reading too much _Alias_ fanfiction. Don’t get used to it.” 

It feels a little like kicking a puppy to say those words, a little like she hadn’t fallen asleep in his arms last night, blissfully happy about their official new CIA-MI6 partnership. But had Nancy been right? Was that bliss really just a hollow echo of a past life, when she’d been a naive analyst daydreaming about family life with Fine? Field agents aren’t supposed to get married and settle into easy domesticity and monogamous sex lives. They’re supposed to save the world by any means necessary. How many allies like Aldo have Fine and Ford left for dead in hotel rooms around Europe and never given a second thought?

Aldo says nothing and withdraws his arm from around her shoulders. After a moment, he stands up, smoothing down his pants with stiff gentlemanly politeness. “Would you like some coffee? I think I need some coffee.”

She almost - almost - lets him go before making a grab for his hand. “Albert.” He’s not wrong - that might be his real, legal name, but it still sounds like a lie when she says it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m being so mean to you.”

It takes a moment, but a smile comes back to his face and he leans in closer, so that fewer people will overhear. “It’s because I didn’t wake you up in our customary way this morning. Can you ever forgive me?” 

She tugs on his tie to crush his mouth to hers. “I love you,” she says, very conscious of the audience of bored passengers around them who are doubtless livetweeting her every word. “Sometimes I just… I get a little scared of how much.”

There’s a question in his eyes, but he cups her cheeks in both hands and kisses her back like this is the finale of a long-anticipated romcom. She’s not entirely sure how much she believes it - sure it’s a performance, but most of Aldo’s life is a performance in one way or another, either pretending to be an Englishman to please his father, or putting on the role of an Italian lothario explicitly to annoy his father. Obviously after carrying around boatloads of mommy issues for her entire life, she’d pair up with a man who could pack a 747 full of similar problems.

Usually she would spend the three-hour flight to London reading up on the case or trying to get some shuteye, but Nancy has provided absolutely zero insight into the intelligence quagmire that awaits them, and Aldo had let her sleep too long as it was. Which means the only thing left to do is play the newlywed role to the hilt. And maybe a little beyond. 

She likes kissing him. Really, really likes it. Likes the taste of his lips, his tongue, the feel of his breath on her skin, and oh god she has it bad, even when - and maybe because - they can’t go any further, can’t slip hands inside clothing, can’t press their naked bodies together in the pursuit of shared pleasure. If she was another passenger on this flight she’d roll her eyes and pray for a flight attendant to turn a hose on them and bring a halt to this obnoxious PDA. But she catches one of those disapproving looks out of the corner of her eye - maybe from that same woman who had captured Aldo’s attention earlier - and only wants to kiss him deeper, run her fingers through his hair and leave him gasping.

“Susan…” Aldo murmurs against her cheek, “this is not… keeping a low profile.”

She could comment about how his pants are also failing on that score. “How often do you think handsome boys make out with me? I just feel it’s finally my turn to make a few people jealous.”

“You don’t have to make anyone jealous,” Aldo says, straightening his tie, “I’m yours always. Although I do think a trip to the bathroom is in order.”

“They’ll think we’re going to screw in there.”

“If only. I have a hard enough time standing up without braining myself on something.” He kisses her again, squeezes her hand, and gets up, making his way very carefully to the bathroom. 

And, almost instantly, his seat is taken by the platinum blonde ice queen. Susan does her best to react in the way a newlywed dental implant representative who is totally not a spy might, which is with faint bafflement and a, “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong row?” while surreptitiously checking the newcomer’s hands for guns and blades and poison darts.

The ice queen smiles thinly. “So you’re Aldo’s latest girl. There’s been chatter, but we all expected something… different.”

“I think you’re confusing me with someone else? My husband’s name is Albert.” Susan frowns a little, glancing around as if for a flight attendant or for said upright English husband himself. But there’s been _chatter_? She’s not sure whether to be pleased or concerned that some international network of spies, assassins, and ridiculously-good-looking-but-deadly supermodels are spending their time gossiping about her love life. A year ago the entire CIA had regarded her as less of a sexual being than a manila folder.

“Albert, yes… Give my regards to his dear dad. And a word of warning, although I’m sure you know already… Aldo’s a very naughty boy. Yours isn’t the only ass he’s been groping. And he’ll find some other bosoms to capture his attention. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll send you flowers. At least the note he sent me was very sweet…” 

She’s gone, with the absurd elegance of a ballet dancer that really should not translate to the cramped confines and constant movement of a plane. Susan genuinely looks around for a flight attendant now, because seriously a drink is in order, and finds Aldo, who folds himself back into his seat.

“Making friends?” he says.

“With a friend of yours, apparently.”

“Not sure I’d go that far.”

Susan considers crafting her words a little more carefully, but honestly with Aldo there’s never any point. “She said you grabbed her ass.”

There’s just a hint of surprise in his eyes. “I think I’d go a little further than that. We kept each other warm over a couple of very cold nights in Helsinki a few years ago.”

“And you sent her flowers?”

“Susan… this was years before we met. Why does this disturb you? I’m not troubled by the men you’ve been with.”

“And why is that, Albert? Is it because the men I’ve been with can be counted on one hand, and you’re…” She gestures at the entirety of him: six-foot-four of English-Italian handsomeness. “You’re you.” She’s had a few idle daydreams about Jerry - nice, mild, boring, schlubby Jerry - meeting Aldo and instantly regretting ever breaking up with her. Or soberly assessing the situation and realizing that he could never have been good enough for her, and that Aldo was the kind of man she truly deserved. 

Which is fine when she’s thinking of the sweet, funny, smart man who idolizes her and puts her spycraft far above even his own. And a bit less fine when she has to think of him as the brash, handsy guy who’d grabbed her ass and boob and tried to tongue-kiss her when they’d barely exchanged names. Or to think of him as that guy replicating that behavior with women all over Europe and pretty frequently getting positive reactions. She wants to turn a hose on him now. Blast off all that sex and grime, and, okay, replace it with some sex and grime of her own.

“I ‘ave a very ‘ard time being me,” Aldo says after a moment, deliberately letting his accent slip, “but I understand, I think.”

“Do you? Because it feels like the more I get to know you, the more I find out I don’t know at all. I think I know Aldo, then I have to deal with this Albert guy, then I realize I still don’t know Aldo very well. Not the Aldo who’s got zero concept of personal boundaries and fucks women all over Europe. I know you’re not an idiot. I know you’re not some misogynistic asshole. So can you please reconcile all I know about you now with that guy who had his hands all over me from the word go?”

He chews on his lip for a second. “I ‘ave no excuse, Susan. There is no excuse. But we will talk about this in London, yes?”

“Okay. In London.” Part of her wants to slouch in her seat and ignore him in favor of seeing how many martinis she can tease out of the flight attendants. But… God she likes kissing him. 

***

London. She’s been here twice before and it would be easy to get the impression that it’s always raining. They only have hand luggage and get through passport control suspiciously quickly, aided by some invisible hand that comes from either Langley or Vauxhall Cross. From there, it’s into a cab that Susan anticipates is probably manned by an intelligence operative from some agency or other - she half wants to wait around for Aldo’s friend the ice queen and offer to carpool to his apartment. 

“So this isn’t your place,” she says when the cab drops them off on the street. It’s not that it couldn’t be - the buildings are near-identical for blocks around - but Aldo had been very interested in studying the cars parked one block back. 

“No… Sorry for the damp. We’ll pop in somewhere and get a coffee, shall we?” He opens his umbrella - which she’d just always assumed was secretly a swordstick - to shelter her. “My flat seems to be quite the tourist attraction.”

“Time to call in an airstrike?”

Aldo gives her a mock-disapproving frown, swiftly followed by a smile. “Americans. No, we will ‘ave a civilized drink and assess the situation, and then walk into the lion’s mouth. Is spy tradition.”

“We could just stay at a hotel.”

“They are all full of SVR. We are safer ‘ere.” Aldo opens the door of a tiny cafe and closes his umbrella. “After you.”

London has its trendy coffee houses and hipster eateries. This is more like something Susan would expect to find in her parents’ town - a tiny family business run by a grandmother that had steadfastly remained open as the city developed and evolved around it. The sole waitress regards them skeptically, but “coffee” seems to be understood and arrives quickly, complete with suspiciously rigid chocolate-chip muffins, all before Aldo’s had time to take off his tie, wrap it around his fist, and slide it into his pocket.

“So,” Susan says after a moment, “are we talking or surveilling?”

“We are, as always, doing both.” Aldo smooths back his damp hair and fiddles with sugar sachets he doesn’t open. “Why did you start this line of work, Susan? To ‘elp people? Save them? Yes, I also, but that was not…” He discards the sachets along with the train of thought, his eyes meeting hers. “Did you mean what you said at the airport?”

The sudden detour catches her off guard. “What did I… Oh god, Aldo, yes. Yes, I love you, you big idiot. I’m crazy about you. Did you mean what you said last night?”

“I say lots of things last night… But yes, I mean them. I love you more than Ferrari. I would propose to you. I want to have a family with you, whatever that means… Susan, I am yours, always. It does not matter what I did before.”

“But it does matter.” Her hand, still with its gold band, covers his larger one on the table. “It matters because I really, really need to know I’m not as crazy as I feel, and the man I’m in love with isn’t just a mirage that’ll be gone tomorrow.”

Aldo looks past her, through the window to the street beyond. “There is no excuse for how I acted. None.”

“Is there an explanation?”

“There is, eh, ‘ow you say, sob story. This is not ‘ow I want you to think of me, poor Aldo. I ‘ave ‘ad good life, education, privilege. When I screwed up, it was my fault.”

She squeezes his hand. “But still. Tell me. I’ve got sob stories too.”

“You asked if I was married before… I was engaged once. Rings, plans, everything. But this is not the beginning. The beginning is I was pilot, Albert the flight lieutenant. I was very good pilot. I was ‘appy. One day my father comes and tells me he needs me to save the world. I think this is not so unreasonable. I am good pilot, good shot, good intelligence officer. I speak many languages. Perhaps I ‘ave skills he needs. But this is not the reason.”

“Your fiancee?”

A nod. “I do not know the whole story. Is classified, redacted, shredded… But I know how it ends.”

A memory - his answer to that long-ago question - comes back to her. “On the roof of the Vatican at 4am.”

“I ‘ave never decided what is better: to believe that she never loved me, or to believe everything we had together was true and she still wanted me dead. But in the end it is all the same, no? She fell and I did not save her.”

“You stayed in Italy?”

“Yes… I lived with my mother for a while. My stepfather found me this job, driving around, having fun. But of course my father comes calling. Is very difficult to say no to saving the world, you know? And I am… I don’t know the word.”

“Distraught?”

“I am… destroyed, maybe. I cannot be Albert, this construct my father built up and tore down. So I am Aldo again. And who is Aldo? Aldo is ten year old boy who loves cars and girls.”

Susan raises her eyebrows. “I think the phrase you’re looking for might be ‘fucked up.’ Did you ever go to therapy?”

“Why would I go to therapy? I am good spy, I am good consultant. I file reports. I look after my mother, clean up my brother’s messes. The girls like me, mostly, a big friendly Italian idiot to have some fun with in a foreign city... I am self-destructive in very neat and tidy way. It was like a compulsion, something I could not prevent myself from doing.”

“Nancy did say you were the best. And that there were complaints.”

Aldo sips his drink and pulls a face. Such a coffee snob. “Both are true. I always apologize. I get reprimand in file. It is not an unusual story.”

Susan has to admit that the HR and staff welfare departments are really consistently failing front-line agents. But then “an ally touched my boob” probably gets filed several cabinets away from “an enemy agent chopped off my arm with a hatchet.” 

“And now?” she asks. “This compulsion of yours?”

“Now I think of you.” He sounds this sincere so rarely that she believes it, just like the time he’d insisted she was a good agent and she’d started to think that maybe he was a good man. “Meeting you changed my life in more ways than you imagine, Susan Cooper. You were, for maybe the first time, a good agent who truly believed in what she was doing. No bullshit, no artifice. I would have sat around waiting to die, but you cared. You made me care.”

“You just like being ordered around by strong women.”

“I do not deny this. So, yes, I am still a disaster. But I am keeping my hands to myself.”

Susan lifts her mug to her lips and smiles. “You still say ‘bosoms’ in your sleep.”

“So I am forgiven?”

“It’s not about forgiving. It’s about… I don’t know… Understanding. Knowing where we go from here.”

He nods, his fingers interlacing with hers on the table. “And you? What is your sob story?”

“Ugh,” she says into her coffee. “You don’t want to hear it. We’ve already established you have the combined emotional intelligence of a traumatized soldier and a ten-year-old boy.”

“I was airman, not soldier, and ten-year-old boy is at least twenty now, so very emotionally intelligent. Tell me.”

Her story has always sounded pathetic in her head and certainly compared to watching your fiancee fall to her death. “I… Really, it’s nothing. I was a teacher. Kids are cruel. Big newsflash, right?”

Aldo is already frowning. “Kids are cruel? Give me their names, I will pay them a visit.”

“It’s just what kids _do_. They hate anyone who’s different. Like that beanpole Italian boy. Or the big girl… I don’t know why I thought it would be any different when I became a teacher. Thought I would be so good they would love me. But… Anyway, _apparently_ you’re not allowed to just straight-up punch children in the teeth, so I figured the CIA was probably a better fit.”

“This is not sob story. This is awesome story. You are hot-as-fuck badass, like I always say.”

She can’t help but smile in the face of his absolute earnestness “Aldo… No, it wasn’t being a badass. It was running away from failure and hoping somehow that a doormat who couldn’t face a class of spotty tweens would be able to take on the world’s biggest and baddest.”

“I do not understand your argument,” Aldo says, his brow furrowed, “and very smart superspy lady tell me I am very smart also, so is puzzling, honestly. You are not doormat, or any kind of furnishing. I ‘ave read all your files. You really ‘ave taken on world’s biggest and baddest. Top of mountain, bottom of ocean, in sandstorms and blizzards and ‘urricanes. Susan. Is not running away from failure. Is making choice. Changing your fate. Seeing ‘ow you want your future to be. And of course is with big friendly Italian idiot.”

“Big hot-as-fuck Italian badass, maybe.” She takes a deep breath, deciding that she truly does like the air better than the coffee. “Can we make a pact to start believing that we’re not as messed up as we think we are?”

“Yes, I like these pacts.” Aldo leans back in his chair, catching the attention of the waitress. “Could I get, eh, six coffees to go, please? Thank you so much.”

Susan doesn’t need to look round to know what the coffees are for. “I don’t know who’s watching your place, but poisoning them seems a little underhanded.”

“Intelligence community is all big happy family. And when you ‘ave been on stakeout for thirty-six hours, you drink anything.”

Out on the street, she waits in the doorway to his building while Aldo makes the rounds: six people indeed, four in three cars, two lingering separately and unsuccessfully attempting to appear casual rather than miserably soaked. 

“It seems,” Aldo says, sorting through a fob holding many keys to find the one to the ancient front door, “they are mostly not ‘ere for us, and entirely not ‘appy to be in London.”

“So who else is here?”

“I ‘ave some ideas. Likely my father sent some kind of, eh, welcoming committee.”

Susan takes in the tiny lobby, the illegible names scrawled on mailboxes, the cardboard OUT OF ORDER sign stuck to the elevator. “You want my guess? If something big’s going down in London, Rick Ford just loves hanging out in shady corners so he can criticize my existence.”

“He is not much of a team player, Signor Ford.” Aldo unlocks one of the mailboxes, which might - if she squints - be marked with his stepfather’s surname. He drops an avalanche of junk mail in the trash can below, which is already overflowing with flyers to a local curry place, and rips open the one remaining package. 

London really is determined to live up to her old ideas of what the spy life would entail. “You mailed yourself a gun?”

“I sent a courier. The Royal Mail generally disapproves of sending firearms… And the postage is horrific.”

“I really hope no kids live here.” While there are a _few_ she wouldn’t mind seeing caught in a bear trap, in general the intelligence community’s lack of safety protocols is pretty shocking on all fronts.

“If they do, they’re probably Chinese secret police.” Aldo opens the door to the stairwell and looks around. “Come on, it’s only a couple of flights.”

It is more than a couple, but they pass no one on the way and exit into a relentlessly boring, well-lit, non-ominous hallway with four apartment doors. There’s a man standing by one of them, shopping bags at his feet, fumbling with keys in much the same way Aldo had before. Another door bears Aldo’s stepfather’s name. 

“Been ‘ere long?” Aldo remarks loudly. “Hope they don’t keep you standing ‘ere for weeks.”

“Your people give me a heads up. Professional courtesy.” The man stuffs his keys into the pocket of his thick duffel coat and glances around. “You’re looking well, Al. I heard they got you in Venice.”

“Just a scratch. Susan, this is Dima, my counterpart on the other side of both accommodation and profession. Dima, this is-”

“I know who she is.”

“Yes, but let us pretend we are normal people, no? This is my partner Susan.”

Dima wipes his hand on the side of his jacket and extends it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dimitri. I work in, er, dental implants?”

“Seriously?” Susan shakes his hand vigorously. “I thought I was the only one. Do they keep sending you PDFs with, like, horrific sports injuries, because _god_ I did not want to know that much about maxillofacial reconstruction before breakfast.”

“It is sickening. That one with the ice skate?” Dima shudders. “I want to request a reassignment so I can be a creepy cat guy. Just send me cute gifs, okay?”

Aldo looks between them. “What’s so creepy about cats?”

“You don’t get to talk, Mr. Motorsports Consultant.”

“Surprised to see you back. A lot of your people have cleared out recently,” Dima says, and lifts his chin, indicating Aldo’s door. “But there’s been a guy in there for about an hour.”

“One of my father’s?”

“He looks the type. But no, one of hers. An American.”

An American who would fit in seamlessly with the great English spies of yesteryear, if only due to his love for tuxedos, gadgets, and very expensive cars. Susan sighs and pushes open the door to Aldo’s apartment. “Fine? What are you doing here?”

Fine does an admirably good job of not looking at all startled, sitting there in a leather armchair Aldo probably keeps solely so sinister uninvited guests have somewhere to rest while they wait, masked by shadow. Susan flips on the light and he winces. “I’m here for you, Coop. Obviously. If it wasn’t for you I’d already be halfway home and away from this powder keg.”

“Powder keg?” 

“You haven’t been briefed yet, right? Figures. If they told you anything you’d be getting out of here just like I am. Sure, send in the newbie to heroically go down in a hail of bullets. Put another plaque on the wall.” Fine uncrosses and recrosses his legs. “This is a shitstorm just waiting to happen, Coop. So come with me and let your taxi driver fiance be the big dumb hero.”

“It’s always a shitstorm, Fine. That’s why we’re here.” Defending Aldo’s honor seems wholly unnecessary. 

Aldo himself leans in the doorway, crossing his arms as his silently sizes up Fine, then straightens up and shuts the door. “You want coffee? Is not Roma, but this coffee maker is not bad.”

“No, I don’t want coffee. I’ve waited here too long as it is. Decision time, Coop. Come with me, we’ll watch all of this go down from the safety of some screens thousands of miles away.”

“Never thought you’d be running from a fight.”

Fine gets to his feet, irritatingly elegant. “Which should tell you how serious this is. And you, Albert, Aldo, whatever we’re supposed to call you this week, you should care about what you’re dragging her into. She doesn’t know this world like we do.”

“I not drag her.” Aldo seems far more interested in the workings of his coffee machine than anything Fine could be saying. “I am taxi driver, no? I watch her back, take her where she needs to go.”

“And this counts as watching her back? I’m just saying, if she was my fiancee I’d be taking better care of her.”

There are so, so many possible rebuttals that Susan struggles to choose. Which probably just winds up looking like she can’t think of a single one. “I took care of you for years, Fine. I think I can take care of both of us now. And I’m not his fiancee. Yet. He needs to find a ring.”

“I ‘ave a ring,” Aldo says, taking out coffee mugs, “but I ‘ave more than one thing to ask, so is matter of right time. You ‘ad better catch your flight, Mr. Fine.”

“You’re a real piece of work. But I should’ve known that from your old man. Why else would so many MI6 operatives jump ship during his tenure? Ford, Nancy… Half the CIA’s English these days. Speaks volumes about who’s running things in London.”

“You are preaching to la cappella musicale pontificia sistina, Mr. Fine. There is a reason I live in Rome.”

Half looking for a fight and frustrated by Aldo’s turned back, half sensible enough not to test out how “dangerous” Aldo really is, Fine glances at the door. “Coop. Susan. Seriously, come with me. This isn’t the time to be messing around with Casanova here.”

Maybe it’s just the noise from the coffee machine, but she could swear that Aldo stifles a laugh. “What you call messing around with Casanova, I call being on assignment with my MI6 counterpart. If you’re sure there’s such a shitstorm brewing, why not stay and help us?”

“You know me, Coop. I don’t run from a fight. But I don’t run into one I can’t win, either. Remember you made your choice.”

He leaves and the apartment somehow seems fuller, warmer for his absence. Or maybe that’s just Aldo’s coffee maker brewing up something that’s hopefully less ominous than a shitstorm. 

This apartment is far less stylish and pristine than the one Aldo keeps in Rome: it’s bare, basic, like a flat rented out to students with furniture that’s decent but has also seen better days. In London, though, the fact she could stretch out and not touch opposite walls probably means no student could hope to afford it. By one of those walls is an upright piano, the only suggestion of culture or character beyond the coffee machine. Aldo might not spend much time here, but his priorities are evident.

“You actually play,” she says, brushing fingertips over the keys. There’s a little dust. No helpful ninjas cleaning this place for him. 

“I actually do.” He pours the coffee. “My brother is a musical genius, but I could’ve been a decent club pianist, maybe.”

She taps a key experimentally. “Why a piano here and not in Rome? If you play some sequence does the wall fold up and reveal a secret passageway?”

“Yes, but unfortunately I ‘ave to play Moonlight Sonata and I can only manage Uptown Girl. Coffee?”

Susan takes the mug. He’s removed his fake wedding band and she slips hers into her pocket. “You said you had more than one thing to ask me. Am I going to spend time fantasizing about something impossibly romantic and then it winds up being butt stuff?”

“Is maybe not impossibly romantic, but is not butt stuff. We ‘ave talked about it before, a bit.”

She knows what Nancy would say. She knows what the Susan of not-too-long-ago would do: clap her hands and eagerly start picking out baby names. But they’ve talked about this in a way that had seemed to take it off the table. They’re spies. She’s over forty. He’s convinced he’d be a terrible parent. Children are not a good idea, however insanely detailed her desire once was to have them with Fine, however much her body still rages at her and pumps hormones into overdrive with an almost audibly-ticking biological clock to make her think _well, maybe…_ and imagine some perfect little chubby-cheeked cherub with Aldo’s soft brown eyes. 

“Aldo…” she says, and the reality of where they are and why they’re here hits. Excavating his old traumas about a dead fiancee was bad enough. They need to be together on this, and focused, if London is poised to crumble to the ground around them. She clears her throat and sips on the coffee. “So what’s next?”

“Usually I ‘ang out ‘ere for a bit, then my father sends some goon to toss a grenade through my window and invite me to come see him. This is ‘ow ‘is generation understands affection, I think.”

“Can we maybe skip the explosions and just go to him first?”

Aldo smiles over his mug. “This is American directness. No respect for tradition.”

“This is American trying to avoid getting blown up. So what’s the deal with your dad? Are we supposed to show up like it’s the Monte Carlo casino? Because I didn’t pack my ballgown.”

“The deal with my father remains a mystery. But I think we go as we are. He ‘as seen me in worse and you are, as always, stunning.”

Susan smooths down her top, which was probably in better condition before hours in an airplane. “Your standards are, as always, low. You have a gun for me?”

“You are continually wanting something big an’ ‘ard from me. Is like I am just piece of meat to you.”

“Hey, the faster we get to your dad and save the world, the faster I can get to that… Yeah, actually I’m not going to start referring to your junk as bologna.”

“On behalf of the Italian people, I thank you.” Aldo crosses to his piano, flexes his long fingers, and picks out a few bars of something that sounds suspiciously like “I Think We’re Alone Now.” A panel slides open in the wall, revealing a small but impressive arsenal. 

“Officially the most James Bond thing that’s ever happened to me. And I had to fight someone in zero-G.” She selects a gun, tests the weight and balance of it. “What kind of firepower does meeting your dad usually entail?”

Aldo slowly starts another tune. No further panels or floorboards slide back. “Usually it’s more of a psychological battle.”

“Usually. But you and I are making a habit of walking straight into disasters without any idea what we’re doing. A fighter plane with a dirty bomb outside Venice. Those crazy new bombs in Rome. How does it all fit together? And what’s got everyone so spooked?” 

For a moment, there’s nothing but music. Then: “Perhaps Fine is not so wrong. You should leave.”

“What? Aldo, you’re _my_ backup, remember? In case I need a driver or a pilot.”

“A pilot, yes...” He looks at her and stops playing. “I don’t know, Susan. The more I get a sense of what might be going on here, the less I like it.”

It’s both reassuring and unnerving whenever he lets his happy, bantering, easygoing demeanor melt away and shows her what he’s really feeling. “What’s your sense?”

“That the connection between these events is…” He reaches into his inside jacket pocket. “I promise I’ll do this properly another time, but…”

The stark, unromantic decor of his apartment, the rain outside, the gun in her hand, and the general air of impending doom can’t stop her breath from catching when he gets down on one knee. Even in her fantasies of Fine or some nameless other guy proposing, it hadn’t been like this. She hadn’t dared to push reality that far. No, they’d always done it in a classy restaurant, or he’d casually asked while basking in the afterglow in bed. But now there’s a whole string quartet going apeshit in her mind. What would her mother ever have thought of this? Of this gorgeous, handsome man holding up what might be the most ornate ring she’s ever seen in real life and saying, “Susan Cooper, will you marry me?”

Of course, what she does is open her mouth and faintly say: “What?”

The string quartet dejectedly throw down their instruments, and Aldo cocks his head to the side, aware of how dissonant all this is. “I just need you to wear the ring. Please.”

“Aldo…” Down on one knee, he’s basically at her eye level. She cups his cheek, brushes her hand over his hair, just to feel some grounding in reality. “Yes I’ll marry you. I’ll wear the ring. But you have to let me do my job and tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, but all the pieces…” He grasps her hand and levers himself back up onto the piano stool. “Fine’s right when he says something’s wrong at MI6. A lot of good people left when my father took over: Ford, Nancy… But that kind of thing always happens when there’s a change in management, right? Except we also stopped talking to the CIA. Started playing silly buggers with codes and secrets from our friends like it was the 70s again. I just ignored it mostly. Stayed away. Hid in Rome and avoided being in London more than I had to. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe if I’d been here… And then Venice, Rome… It seems very convenient that this terrorist organization that sprang up out of nowhere just happens to be mostly active in my country. At my mother’s fucking birthday party.”

For all Aldo’s childhood horror stories, she’d always imagined his father as a sort of Roger Moore or Prince Charles type - posh, aristocratic, a relic of a bygone age, and uncomfortable with emotion, but not actually _evil_. “You really think your father’s capable of…” What is he even suggesting? That his dad might trip them up with unnecessary red tape, unwittingly aiding the enemy? That the enemy is targeting his dad, via Aldo and his mom? Or - and this is the option she seriously doesn’t want to jump to about her apparent soon-to-be father-in-law - that Aldo’s father is on track to wipe out London?

“When I was ten he called me a name that wasn’t mine and locked me up in a school where I didn’t want to be and couldn’t understand. When I was thirty he sent me on a mission to murder the woman I loved. I think he’s capable of just about anything in the name of some higher cause. And he’s about due another way to torture me.”

“Jesus, Aldo… I’m…”

Closing his eyes, he turns his face into her hand, kissing her palm. “Sorry, is all another sob story. Depressing England. All I want to do is take you away, make love to you for weeks, propose in the middle of paradise. But ‘ere we are.”

“We should get in touch with Nancy, Edgar…” As she says it, she knows they can’t. Not if the entire intelligence infrastructure of the United Kingdom is compromised. “Is this the ‘walking into the lion’s den’ strategy you were talking about?”

“Is terrible strategy, but has worked so far…”

***

She kisses him on the taxi ride to his father’s house: kisses him deeply, endlessly, because this is a good plan to stay off the radar of agents looking for two utterly professional spies, and because who knows what awaits them when they get there. When his lips are on hers, she can close her eyes and pretend they’re somewhere far, far away, on an anonymous beach only reachable by a sea plane and two makeshift rafts, where they don’t both have a gun within reach.

“I love you,” Aldo says with an air of faint desperation, and then: “You never made me a cake.”

Usually she’s good at following his various linguistic tangents and cobbled-together means of expression, but this leaves her baffled. Maybe she missed something while she was daydreaming about being naked with him in some bamboo hut, his mouth on her breasts, between her legs… “A cake?”

“Everyone says Susan makes such wonderful cakes. I must be so lucky. I’m going to put on a stone at least just by looking at them. But I’ve never seen one of these cakes.”

She slips a hand in under his jacket, runs it over his chest. “That’s because we spend all our time in bed or running around saving the world. I barely get to make a sandwich. No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“You are all I want to eat… But if we survive tonight, maybe we bake, no?”

“Sure. Cakes. Weddings. Kids. Why not? It’s all on the table.” She wishes it didn’t feel so much like literal gallows humor. 

The cab drops them at the door. No deception here. Just a dutiful son and his fiancee stopping by to say hello to a parent. Although of course this is no cozy country cottage with flowers by the path and a lazy cat yawning on the stairs. It’s a shiny, mirrored high-rise with two guards in the lobby, both of whom seem to recognize Aldo and let them through without a word. By the elevators, Aldo keys in his father’s floor and palms a security sensor. Good enough, apparently.

“Lots of home comforts,” Susan says in the elevator as it races to the penthouse level. 

Aldo entwines his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry I did not get the chance to meet your family.”

“Eh, you’re not missing much.” Her parents had both been nice people, in the sense that they’d never murdered anyone. Her mother tended more to psychological devastation, her father to attempting to have as little impact on the universe as possible, to the extent of barely seeming to exist. She can’t even decide which side they’d come down on with Aldo: casual racism sprinkled with cringeworthy stereotypes, or constant insinuations that he was far too good for her. No, that’s actually an easy decision. Both. Of course both. 

The elevator doors open directly into a lounge that could’ve been lifted wholesale from some nineteenth century gentleman’s club: classical music, burgundy leather upholstery, rugs that might legitimately be Persian, and the aroma of cognac in the air. 

“Albert!” 

She doesn’t see the man until he’s right in front of them, grasping Aldo’s hand in both of his and shaking firmly. Maybe that’s what passes for a hug between them. 

Aldo’s father, the spymaster, is almost as tall as he is and just as trim, in a well-tailored shirt and slacks, with a full head of white hair and crystal blue eyes. His smile seems genuine enough. “What is the occasion, son? Usually I have to twist your arm to encourage you to visit. And this must be the lovely Susan. Charmed, my dear. I have heard so much about you.”

“Oh, you’re too kind. You have such a beautiful home.” She really would be charmed if his introduction hadn’t come with so much backstory from Aldo. Aldo, who she’s achingly aware doesn’t even want to open his mouth because speaking means making a decision between kowtowing to his father or openly defying him. 

“Thank you. I always feel it could use a woman’s touch, like so many other things. Leaving Albert’s mother is a constant regret. How is she, by the way? That mess in Rome even made the _Times_ this morning.”

She can feel Aldo steel himself. “She’s very well. Thank you for the birthday present, the watch. That was very thoughtful.”

“Ah, just a small token of devotion to the mother of my son. Come, sit. Let me pour you a drink. You’ve had an eventful couple of days.”

“Perhaps you can tell us why we’re in London.”

The spymaster gestures carelessly and pours himself a drink. “Again I have to admit that I’m not beyond manufacturing crises to get my son and his fiancee to visit me. That is a stunning ring you’re wearing, my dear.”

“Oh…” Susan holds it up, seeing it in the light for the first time. “Thank you. It really is beautiful.”

“Did he tell you where it’s from? That’s the ring I gave to his mother, some forty years ago. I wish you better fortune with it. We were very much in love, but not everything is meant to last. In any case, this crisis is far from manufactured. We’ve received very credible threats against London, and against MI6 in particular, via that enemy agent Angelo you two apprehended last night. The enemy could be planning to strike as early as tomorrow.”

“Leads?”

“Not as such. Our analysts are trying to track persons of interest, radioactive signatures, missing planes… But we’re missing that eureka moment. I was hoping that after your experiences in Venice and Rome, you might have some insight into the bigger picture.”

Aldo smoothly intercepts the glass that’s offered to her. “No more insight than you. You’re the one who always taught me to be suspicious of coincidences.”

“Yes, this occurred to me,” the spymaster says, sinking into a chair. “Two incidents with my son. Another planned on my home turf. But I’ve made plenty of enemies over the years, Albert. Most of whom are dead or locked away. A more cynical man might even suspect that you’re the common denominator for a very obvious reason.”

“True, I do enjoy giving myself concussions and getting my mother arrested. Also putting the love of my life in mortal jeopardy is a particular fetish of mine.” Aldo knocks back the cognac. “So, we’re here as ordered. What’s your plan of action?”

“My plan of action…” The spymaster smiles again, and this one lingers just a moment too long. “Honestly your sudden bout of punctuality took me by surprise. Is this the effect she’s had on you? Once upon a time you were integral to my plans, Albert, but it was just as convenient to have you preoccupied with models and waitresses in Rome. I like agents who are predictable, even if they’re predictably drunk and found passed out between a couple of whores every morning.”

Aldo barely reacts to this needling. “I did my job.”

“Yes, you did. You ran surveillance and filed reports and fucked every bint between here and Moscow, and you never got in anyone’s way. Until you met her.” He nods at Susan. “I have to give you credit, my dear. Back in my day I would never have thought any woman could go toe to toe with the world’s greatest threats, let alone a woman of your… dimensions. But you’ve been teaching my son how to get his balls back. I would congratulate you.”

There’s a change in the air she can almost taste. “You would?”

“I would. Except the CIA suddenly fielding an agent with actual resolution and character is a variable none of my analysts accounted for. Let alone the idea Albert, who’s spent years roleplaying as some nitwit _guappo_ , would fall in love with her and get not only his courage back, but his brain too.”

She anticipates the cold, cold steel at the back of her neck a moment before she feels it. “His name is Aldo,” she says, “and he’s a better spy, a better man, than you ever were.”

The spymaster shrugs off her words as he gets to his feet. “They told me I should have retired decades ago. Gone and lived out some quiet pastoral existence, let my boy be raised by his mother, become a musician or a racing driver or whatever pointless profession she and her brainless second husband forced him into. But I made him into something truly significant: a man who saves lives, preserves democracy, all those good old values we always fought for. And after tonight they’ll have to recognize that I was always the better spy. A better man? Perhaps not. But that was never as important.” His gaze flicks to whoever’s behind her. “Kill her. Tie him up.”

“Wait.” Aldo stands, knocking his glass to the floor where it shatters. “I’ll come with you, do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

“Oh, Albert. They really did breed you noble at that school, didn’t they? Integrity, honesty, fraternity… I don’t want to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I’m foolish enough to trust you.”

“Then tie us both up. Kill her and you’re killing the only grandchild you’re ever going to get. Is that what you want?”

Suddenly all eyes are on her belly. “You’re lying,” Aldo’s father says calmly.

“Why do you think I proposed? Gave her that ring? It’s exactly what you did for mum all those years ago, except I’m not going to run out on my son. God, Dad. You know my brother knocked up two women in a fortnight without even trying. You think I’m any better at wrapping it up?”

Her hand moves protectively over her stomach. Normally any insinuation that she’s pregnant is mortifying, but she’ll take it over a bullet to the brain stem. “Just be glad I’m not puking my guts out right now. Take it from me, morning sickness has been a bitch.”

“It hasn’t been that bad,” Aldo says, as though this is a familiar argument between them.

“Because you’re always asleep while your baby’s wrestling my intestines. Also I should never ever have gone to bed with a giant like you. I feel like I’m about sixteen months pregnant already.”

Aldo’s father sighs. “Fine.” And with another gesture the gun is gone from Susan’s head… Just to smash into the side of Aldo’s with a sickening crack. Aldo drops, out cold before he reaches the floor, blood bubbling from his ear. 

“Oh my god, Aldo…” She rises to go to him, but the gun brings her up short. A gun wielded by a man she knows, who she’d once tried to awkwardly flirt with for information: Edgar, Aldo’s MI6 handler. One of the people who had willingly stayed on under Aldo’s father’s regime while others left. One of the people who could’ve screwed with the CIA’s computer systems to make sure they forgot they ever saw a fighter jet outside Venice. And one of the people who’d relentlessly stonewalled her back when she was first trying to figure out who Aldo even was. All of which now makes a kind of sickening sense.

Susan puts up her hands, struggling to keep her voice composed and reasonable. “You have to let me take him to the hospital. He’s your son. He’s already had two serious concussions recently. You want him to bleed into his brain and die on the floor of your apartment?”

“I’ve had worse. He’ll be fine.” Aldo’s father nods at Edgar. “Get the handcuffs.”

They have her sit down on an impressive rug by an even more impressive roaring fireplace and handcuff her, propping an unconscious Aldo at her back and wrestling handcuffs on him too, intertwined with hers. Their guns have been taken, their pockets emptied.

“Here’s the situation, Ms. Cooper,” Aldo’s father says, slipping on a jacket. “I’m told you’re a great spy, so I’m very confident you can survive this situation. You have two hours to free yourselves and get my son and grandchild out of London. Not enough time to stop what’s going to happen, but so be it.”

“And if we don’t get out?”

“Well, I suppose Albert should’ve chosen more wisely. Goodbye, Ms. Cooper. Do send me a wedding invitation.”

The second he and Edgar have gone, she yanks on the handcuffs. “Aldo!” He’s a dead weight at her back, and these handcuffs aren’t something she can free herself from alone. Maybe a shard from his broken glass, near them on the floor? But no way is that long and thin enough. She needs a bobby pin. Or to try dislocating her thumb, which sounds great if you’re an actual Bond villain and not so fun in reality.

“Aldo!” She grabs his hand, twists his fingers in the hope the sudden pain will wake him up. Nothing. She clears her throat and aims for her best R. Lee Ermey. “Lieutenant! What the ever-loving _fuck_ are you doing sleeping at your post! Gimme a sitrep the fuck _now_!” 

Still nothing. Well, maybe she can hear him breathing. Maybe it’s just the roar of the fire. “Jesus, Aldo.” She elbows him in what might be a kidney. “Bosoms!”

“Stop…” he says in barely more than a whisper. “Stop shouting.”

“Aldo, we don’t have much time. Are you okay?”

She really can hear him breathing now. “I… No… Where are we?”

“Your dad’s penthouse. He left to go and destroy London, so we seriously have to get out of here. How did you escape from those handcuffs in Venice?”

A pause. “I ‘ad a key, of course.”

“Great. So any ideas how we get out of these ones?”

“You ‘ave to put your ‘and in my pants.”

Susan raises her eyebrows. She has literally had literal sex with this man dozens of times and yet they still always come to this. “Excuse me?”

“In the back of my underwear there is a wire…”

She manages to twist her hand around to slide it down past his belt, into the waistband. And yes, there is a long, hard wire that she’s able to rip out with a little effort, and then shape into a makeshift lockpick. Even a couple of minutes feels like a lifetime, her muscles screaming at her, but the cuffs eventually pop open and she scrambles around to free Aldo as well. 

“You ‘ave to go,” he says, and she can tell why just by looking at him - his unfocused eyes, the stream of blood and fluid from his ear that’s staining his jacket. “I’m seeing triple. Everything sounds like it’s underwater…”

“Concussion. Ruptured eardrum.” She has to hope nothing’s fractured and that three concussions in eighteen months really isn’t that bad. But who is she kidding. “The question is… _Where_ do I have to go? Your dad forgot the bit where he tells us his entire plan before leaving.”

It’s at that point that the elevator doors open. She expects Aldo’s father coming back to tie up loose ends. She expects gunfire. What she gets is… “Ford?”

“Right. What mess have you two got into? Had to deep-six two goons in the lobby, then use their handprints to get up here. Nance says this is the big fella’s pop’s place. Your family always so welcoming, Alfred?”

“Albert,” Aldo murmurs.

“Aldo,” Susan corrects sharply. “Ford, help me get him up. What intel do you have?”

“Intel is there’s no fucking intel. Which Nancy figured was pretty suspicious. Couldn’t get in touch with either of you, so she sent me to kick some ass and sort things out.” Ford manhandles Aldo up onto the couch. “Always thought your old man was up to something. Problem is you can never tell if it’s just the regular old aristo bullshit or building space lasers.” A pause. “Is it space lasers?”

“Probably not?” She wets a cloth and mops up Aldo’s blood where it’s run a thick trail down his cheek and neck. Not that it does much good. “He said we had two hours to get out of London, so he’s planning to do something very soon. Nancy doesn’t have a tracker on him?”

“On the spymaster? No chance. He could be anywhere.”

“He said…” Aldo grimaces with the effort of focusing. “Integral to his plans. That’s what he said I was. But why?”

Ford shrugs, pouring himself some cognac. “He needs to bang some hot Italian babes?”

“You’re a pilot,” Susan says, “you flew that plane in Venice. Not many people could do that. And I’m guessing most of the world’s elite fighter pilots aren’t going to be up for giving London smallpox or radiation poisoning, or whatever they’re planning on dropping.”

Aldo groans, pressing his hand to his head. “I should’ve seen it before. Milla. Why she was coming to London.”

“The woman on the plane?”

“Yes… She’s Finnish Air Force. Or was. Last I heard she was in some deep, dark testing program.”

“Fucking deep dark secrets. They’re all the same thing. Some evil mastermind with a volcano lair made out of lots of stuff that randomly explodes.” Ford takes a gulp of the cognac. “Probably ninjas. Fucking ninjas. Where do they even recruit them? All the ninja classes I see are five-year-old kids. Ugh this stuff is awful.” He pours himself some more. “Oh, Nancy said to give you two these.” 

Earpieces. Contact lenses. Susan pops hers in. So does Aldo, after a moment of consideration. “Nancy?”

“Susan Cooper _is that a big honking diamond ring you’re wearing_?!?” Nancy’s voice has ascended about an octave. “Tell me all about it. Did he get down on one knee? Can I be the maid of honor?” 

“Can we focus on surviving the night first? Nancy, there’s a Finnish operative in London. Do you have a track on her?”

“Finnish operative… Oh, Milla… I’m not even going to try to pronounce that last name. Yeah, she’s out near Heathrow. Want me to get them to bring her in?”

“No, just keep a watch on her. Ford and I will go there. Get an ambulance to come here and look after Aldo before his brain leaks out through his ears.”

Aldo grabs her wrist. “I’m coming with you. He’s my father and you need a pilot.”

“Ford and I can fly most things in a pinch. And you can barely see, hear, or walk.”

“Fuck it, let him come. We’re all dead in a couple of hours anyway if we don’t stop this, and maybe we’ll need some emotional blackmail.” Ford hauls Aldo to his feet. “Honestly, though, what do you see in this guy? He’s ninety percent limbs and ten percent grease. Anything’s got to be a massive disappointment after being given the ol’ Ford one-two.”

“One-two? What does that even mean? We had sex, not an MMA bout.”

“Oh I dunno, this bird, Alfie, like a wildcat in the sack, ain’t she?” Ford nudges Aldo in the ribs and gets nothing but a groan in response. “You could suffocate in those tits.”

Susan’s still wondering whether that’s supposed to be a compliment when they make their way through the lobby, past the bodies of two unconscious (she hopes) guards, and out to where Ford has haphazardly parked his SUV on the sidewalk. Aldo plants a hand against the bodywork and pukes up what must be mostly coffee and airline food while she pats his back and takes Ford’s backup weapon. 

“Better?” she asks, handing him a Kleenex.

“Oh, not at all,” Aldo says, but he smiles.

“If he pukes all over my car, he’s cleaning it!” Ford warns as they get in - Susan riding shotgun, Aldo in the back, probably once again getting his shins crushed. “Fucking Heathrow, it’s like its own city. Why can’t these jerks run their evil plans from some remote airfield only staffed by stormtroopers or something? I don’t want to have to worry about shooting the fucking Lufthansa baggage handlers.”

Susan taps the comm button on his dashboard. “Nancy, is there anything unusual happening at Heathrow? Something military maybe? Some way they can sneak in a whole extra plane without people getting suspicious?”

“Anything unusual happening at Heathrow, she says,” Nancy mutters in response. “Flights taking off on time, chicken wraps not giving anyone e.coli, that sort of thing?”

“My father used to run a company,” Aldo says. His eyes are shut tight. “When he was in the private sector. Something in the defense industry. They used to have-”

“Their very own hangar. Way ahead of you, Alberto. Sending you the GPS now, Ford.”

It’s not surprising how fast and borderline-recklessly Ford drives, like he and Aldo attended some of the same courses on how to cause the most spectacular automotive disasters. What is impressive is that they haven’t acquired a long, long tail of police cars, sirens blaring, by the time they get to Heathrow and blast past security at a remote access gate. Nancy has obviously put out whatever the opposite of a BOLO is.

“Tell me you have a strategy,” Nancy says as they home in on the hangar.

“If we do, that would be a first. Ford?” 

Ford blinks, as though she’s just asked his opinion on interior decorating or particle physics. “Dunno. Shoot the henchmen. Prob’ly hang on to a cargo net when they take off, almost fall to our deaths, then take out the spymaster with some cool gadget I forgot I had. Usually works. Then I go bang some hot chick on a submarine.”

She takes a moment to digest that, then twists around in her seat. “Aldo?”

“Kill him.” His eyes are still closed. “The first chance you get. Don’t underestimate him, Susan. He’s not like me, not even on my worst day. And he might be older now, but he’s still better at this than all three of us put together.”

She knows he means it as exceptional praise for the spymaster, a man who possibly literally wrote the book on spycraft for decades, saving Her Majesty’s realm and the world on numerous occasions. She also knows what the three of them can do. But she still can’t help thinking that most intelligence agents worth their salt should be able to take on a desk jockey who couldn’t cope with elementary schoolers, an absurdly overqualified taxi driver having an identity crisis, and… she’s still not sure which planet Ford is on most of the time. 

“So,” she says, “we’re going to have to improvise and play it by ear.” If she says it confidently enough, it sounds like an actual plan rather than a complete absence of one. “Ford, watch your sight lines, there are probably civilian staff around. Aldo, stick with the car and stay on comms. And try not to get kidnapped or knocked out. Nancy, any intel you can give us would be great right now…”

The SUV squeals onto the tarmac just as Nancy’s reading off some not-very-helpful details about the plane the spymaster might have, the possible payload, the group of baggage handlers on their cigarette break behind a shipping container. Susan checks her ammo and opens the door.

A bullet immediately whistles over her head, intended for one of the many other spies who’s a little taller than 5’2 in her socks. Over some handy oil drums, she can see a flash of very Nordic platinum blonde hair. Milla. 

“I’ll take out the hottie,” Ford says. “She probably knows kung fu or gun kata or some shit. You do the boring bit, like figuring out how to get on that plane.”

Practically speaking, getting on the plane is pretty easy - the cargo hold is invitingly open, so no need to cram herself through a window or laser-cut a hole in the fuselage. On the other hand, she can see that Edgar’s right there, nestled in shadows, the butt of his rifle sticking out.

“So Aldo, I’ve been thinking,” she says conversationally as she cautiously makes her way around the perimeter, keeping out of sight, trying to judge if the spymaster has any more henchmen on the scene. “You shouldn’t be a spy. You’ve never wanted to be a spy. And if you keep being a spy you really are going to die that ridiculous death you were talking about, except it won’t be that ridiculous. It’ll be one traumatic brain injury too far and you’ll be just another body on just another piece of tarmac. Not heroic, not badass, just dead.”

Nothing. Maybe he’s passed out. Maybe the comm link is off and she’s talking to dead air. A hundred feet away, Ford’s engaged in a fight with Milla that somehow involves both flare guns and backflips. 

“So here’s the plan.” Even if no one’s listening, it calms her nerves. “We’re going to get married. I’m going to be a spy like I’ve always wanted, and you’re going to figure out what you’ve always wanted.”

There’s some kind of small explosion out of her line of sight - but she can see the plume of black smoke rising - and Edgar is spooked enough to venture out from the cargo bay door to check it out. She could go after him or try to take him out, but taking out the plane is a bigger concern right now.

“The thing is,” she continues, jogging over to the plane, keeping her head down and watching out for Edgar’s return, “I think I know what that is, Aldo. I think I know what the other thing is you wanted to ask me. You told me you’d be a terrible father but we both know that’s not true. This jackass doesn’t have any say over what you do anymore. He never should have. You’re a great, loving son and brother. You love me with a kind of intensity I’ve never felt from anyone else. So…”

The inside of the plane is so dark it’s like she’s momentarily lost the ability to see. Is using your cellphone flashlight with your gun a huge no-no? She imagines Elaine groaning and holding her head in agony at what her agents are up to these days.

Susan elects to keep her eyes open and trust her instincts. Hopefully she won’t crash directly into some massive canister of anthrax or uranium. “I don’t know if we can have kids,” she says, because why not add to the stress of this situation, “but we can try. And if it doesn’t work out, we can adopt, or babysit all these kids your brother’s having all over Europe, or, fuck it, I’ll even get a cat with you if we have to, but honestly-”

There’s a loud clank that’s resounding in its finality as the cargo door shuts on her and the darkness becomes even more intense.

“I love you, Aldo.” Her voice echoes and now it seems very clear that she’s talking to no one but herself.

The walkway ends where she knows a door must be and she feels blindly for its outline and then for the access panel. Just as she does, the cockpit door slides open and the runway lights beyond the windows momentarily dazzle her. 

“Ah, Ms. Cooper. I was hoping you’d join me.”

Oh, so it’s going to be like _that_. She edges into the cockpit, gun at the ready. Aldo’s voice is already in her head, telling her to shoot him. Don’t wait, don’t ask questions, take him out. But she doesn’t pull the trigger.

The spymaster is sitting in the pilot’s chair, headphones around his neck. There’s a gun by his side, but he makes no motion to grab it. “Is my son out there?” He sounds weary.

“Yeah,” she says, “Aldo’s here, walking off head trauma to save millions of innocent lives, just like I’m told you used to.”

A smile. “I used to, yes, and that’s what I wanted to give him. The world. My world. All that terror and passion and the thrill of being alive. But everything changed by the time he grew up. No Berlin Wall, no Iron Curtain. Spies with more technology than wits. Surveillance via satellites. And agents like you.”

Susan raises her eyebrows just a little. “Female? American? Someone who can’t squeeze into a size 4 dress?”

“Someone who cares about people.” The spymaster shakes his head slightly. “When I had a mission, nothing would get in my way. And you… You’re trying to thwart the deaths of millions while having a conversation about whether my son can knock you up and if you should get a cat.”

“And you’re trying to cause the deaths of millions of people you spent your entire career trying to protect. Did you _ever_ consider getting a cat? Or a puppy? Actually, I feel like a puppy is way better if you’re trying to avoid snapping and laying waste to a whole city. I’m going to take this gun now.”

The spymaster watches her pick it up. “We both know this plane’s not getting in the air. Somehow I never thought it would. Aldo was never going to be on board after he met you. I changed the plan and persuaded Milla, but perhaps she’s better suited to ridiculous fistfights with Mr. Ford. Well, so be it. I can still release the virus. Contaminate Heathrow. Once all these people get to their destinations, it won’t just be London that’s wiped out.” 

“And you’d undo everything good you’ve ever done in your life? You’d murder your own son. Obliterate MI6. Throw this country - _every country_ \- into chaos and a new dark age, just because… Why? Because the world changed and you couldn’t get your rocks off fighting Soviets anymore?”

“Your generation couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I understand what it’s like to make a choice, the right choice. A very smart Italian badass told me earlier today that it’s all about changing your fate and seeing how you want your future to be,” Susan says. “I’m going to choose Aldo every time and you better choose him just this fucking _once_ or I will blow your head off and spend my last breaths personally erasing your name from every historical record with my own bloody vomit.”

There might be no greater relief than seeing an old man finally bow his head and put his hands in the air.

“Cooper!” There might also be no spy less stealthy than Rick Ford, crashing through the cargo bay once she opens the door. “What the fuck are all these canisters? Ebola? Helvetica syndrome? Am I going to start bleeding from my eyeballs?”

“The biohazard guys are on their way. Did you see Aldo?”

“Yeah, the big fella’s all right. Cuddling with a friend. Come on, you.” He snaps handcuffs onto the spymaster while Susan makes her way back out very, very carefully.

When she gets back to the SUV, Aldo is sitting propped up against the front tire, an unconscious Edgar folded into what must’ve been a chokehold, and a gun a few feet away. Susan wrestles Edgar away from him, checking that he truly is out cold. 

“How’re you doing?” she says, crouching down next to Aldo. “Paramedics will be here soon.”

“I’m okay.” Aldo blinks hard and focuses on her, or tries to. “Did you kill him?”

“Sorry, but he didn’t give me a good enough excuse, and I bet MI6 will be very interested in all he has to say about these fake terrorist cells he’s been setting up around Europe… before they throw him in some deep dark prison that doesn’t officially exist and throw away the key.”

Aldo smiles. “Welcome to the family.”

“You heard all of that?”

“I think so, and I agree, although that wasn’t what I planned to ask you.” He wearily plants a hand on the ground, pushing himself up, although he still leans heavily against the car. “Susan Cooper, will you marry me?”

She smiles, despite herself. “For real?”

“For very real. The realest. And I’ll get you a better ring.”

Susan rubs a finger over the diamond engagement ring he’d given her before, a ring that had saved her life. “It’s a beautiful ring. Your mother’s ring. It hasn’t been his in decades.”

Aldo frowns just a little. “So… is that a yes?”

That smile again, like she’s a teenage girl who’s just been asked to become a princess. “How many of me are you asking right now?”

“Well, there’s a good chance one of you won’t turn me down.” He’s still talking like he’s Albert, and for once she doesn’t want to point it out. His brain is scrambled enough already and his very proper English accent somehow suits the occasion.

“Yes, Aldo, I’ll marry you. Of course I will. But what was the other question you wanted to ask?”

Now it’s his smile that’s positively adolescent: a shy, awkward boy who was always too tall and in the wrong country. “I… I was wondering if maybe… If you would allow me to take your name.”

She’s so amazed that the question doesn’t have the word “ejaculate” in it that she forgets she’s supposed to say something in response. “Um, what? You want to be Aldo Cooper? Really?”

He looks just a little sheepish. “I do. I really, really do.”

“Well, sure. I just thought my married name was going to be something a bit more exotic.”

“Cooper’s as exotic as it gets when you live in Rome.”

There are sirens in the air as they kiss. Sirens and blood and gunpowder. She can only imagine what their wedding might be like. But first she just wants to get out of here with him, away to somewhere safe and quiet and relentlessly boring.

“Come away with me,” Aldo says, and it feels like he doesn’t mean catching a cab back to his apartment. “Now. First plane to anywhere.”

“You need to go to the hospital.” Romantic as this is, he’s still got a concussion and a perforated eardrum at best. 

“If I stay, MI6 will lock me up in a cell for a week. Officially out of the fear I’ve been compromised, unofficially because my father just tried to murder millions of people and they don’t know what to do with me. I’d really like to skip the sleep deprivation and interrogations. Seriously, Susan. Let’s just go.”

Her heart is pounding faster than when she’d been on the brink of death moments ago. She taps her earpiece. “Nancy?”

“ _Oh my gosh this is so romantic…_.” Nancy loudly clears her throat, attempting to regain her composure. Susan wonders how many other people are crowded around her screen in the basement. “Ah, yes. Yes, Susan? What can I do for you this- Oh, who am I kidding? Just go with him, girl!”

“...I was going to ask if anyone’s going to shoot us if we try to leave the country.”

“Oh. Well… Probably not if you go right now. I mean… Susan? Susan? Gosh, you’re breaking up. And what’s this? Our entire record of this conversation is becoming corrupted? We seriously need to call pest control.” The line, predictably, goes dead.

Susan crushes their earpieces and contact lenses on the tarmac, then swaps Edgar’s slightly dusty suit jacket for Aldo’s bloodied one. “Okay,” she says breezily to her fiance, as though they’re just setting off for a weekend in Atlantic City. “Let’s go.”

***

_Around three years later…_

They’ve been in the air for thirty minutes before she allows herself to grapple with the overhead locker, pull down her travel bag, and - once everyone around her is engrossed in the in-flight movie - pop open the only compartment that contains anything about Susan Cooper’s life.

She’s been away for three weeks. Three weeks of surveillance on a suspected double agent in St. Petersburg. Three weeks filled with focal lengths and timestamps and reports, where everything but watching and being ready was filtered out of her mind. Now, as she slips on her wedding ring and pulls out the photograph she absolutely should not under any circumstances have brought, it all comes flooding back, like blood recirculating around a numb limb. It tingles. It excites. And it _hurts_ , that ache of longing in her chest that she’s kept at bay through night after night without them.

They’d flown to Oslo that night, the night the spymaster went down. It was only a temporary stop, where Aldo could get checked out in an ER under another name and, once sent away with antibiotics and orders for bed rest, text his mother that he was fine from a burner phone. Then they really took care to lose themselves.

Possibly no one had ever really been coming for them. Possibly anyone who had been sent had thought better of it and spent two weeks in a Munich pub instead, racking up a tab to make the agency’s accountants faint (thanks Ford). But they’d been further away from real urban civilization than Susan had ever been before: an opportunity to rest, to heal, and to talk… Or it would’ve been if Aldo hadn’t decided to speak nothing but Italian the entire time they were there. A way of getting his father out of his head, she guessed. And honestly she couldn’t complain about weeks mostly spent barely ever leaving the bedroom while a gorgeous man talked dirty to her in Italian.

She’d been eight weeks pregnant by the time they left - news that made Aldo cry with joy in an airport bathroom and led to Elaine saying nothing more than, “Thank God, I’ve got the perfect assignment for you” and packing her off to an extremely shady retreat for moms-to-be in the Scottish Highlands. All of which meant that by the time they actually got married, it was a good thing that Aldo’s occasionally-fervent Catholic tendencies cared far more about their son being born out of wedlock than the size of her belly in her wedding dress.

Matteo Cooper. Little Matty Mouse, as Aldo called him from the first sonogram. A gift from God, his mom said, and Susan couldn’t help but agree, with some vague vestiges of a lapsed-and-lazy Irish Catholic upbringing. She was supposed to be too old, too plain, too insignificant in the greater scheme of life to get more than a tacky cupcake necklace in return. (Admittedly the necklace had saved her butt one time, which Fine was never going to let her live down.) What she’d ended up with was right there in the photo: a wonderful supportive husband she’d found in the unlikeliest of places, a sweet little boy with her green eyes and his daddy’s sense of mischief, way, way too much gelato, and…

Matty had been a one-off. A blessing. A Hail Mary. A couple of other soccer and motorsports-related metaphors that Susan hadn’t understood and mostly ignored whenever Aldo brought them up. After he was born, her decrepit, geriatric womb was supposed to do the honorable thing and wither away like ancient parchment. And if it didn’t, her elderly libido should’ve fallen off a cliff, followed shortly by any desire her husband ever had for her body. Naturally, all these factors have absolutely failed to live up to expectations, leading directly to the way even the deliberately roomy clothes she flew out in are now becoming uncomfortably tight around her middle (okay, the gelato might’ve contributed a little too).

The plane lands in Milan, where Nancy has informed her Aldo and Matty have been for the last few days in the run-up to the Italian Grand Prix, held at a circuit nearby. It’s already seven in the evening, so Matty is probably tucked up in bed, or will be by the time she grabs a taxi and makes it to the hotel, but she just badly wants to see and hold her boys…

“Eyyy, ciao bella! Benvenuta a Milano!”

Her boys, who, like a mirage, are suddenly right there in front of her: Aldo in his best business casual, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue dress shirt unbuttoned a little further than truly professional, and Matty dozing against his chest, outfitted in vibrant red from head to toe, Aldo’s shirt bunched up in his fist.

“Non è bella, topolino?” Aldo’s murmuring to their little son. “Mouse. Matty Mouse. Sei bellissima.”

“Is this what happens to your English when I’m gone?”

“Is what ‘appens when I speak only to little mouse an’ racing drivers.” His mouth on hers is all warmth and espresso, lingering far longer than a simple hello.

She lays a hand on Matty’s back, feeling the gentle movement of his breathing. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispers. “How did you know?”

“I ‘ave, ‘ow you say, resources.” Aldo never looks so pleased with himself than when he can pull out that line.

“Nancy told you.”

“She want videos of ‘er godson being cute, she tell me where my wife is. ‘ere, you take living sandbag, I take luggage.”

“Jesus, our intelligence community truly has the integrity of a sieve. Soon we’ll be exchanging nuclear secrets for cat gifs.” Matty is warm and heavy, sleepily flinging his arms around her neck and snuggling against her. “I see you’re being completely non-partisan as usual,” she says, securing the Ferrari baseball cap over Matty’s mess of coppery hair. 

“Can I ‘elp it if ‘e spills juice over himself in front of Scuderia merch stall? I cannot.”

“Did he miss me?”

“I think we are, eh, skirting the edges of tears an’ tantrums. But ‘e tells me ‘e is very upset if Papà massacres Mommy’s language. I am only allowed to speak Italiano.”

“Great, my son has a vocabulary of twenty words and ‘massacre’ is one of them.” It feels so good to hold him, to be on solid ground without a holster in the small of her back or the need to be on constant alert for enemy agents. Normalcy. Something she’d rebelled against, thought was lost forever, and now slipped into all too easily. “What have you been feeding him? A thousand-weight of corn dogs?”

Aldo looks genuinely offended. “We are in Milano, not Oklahoma. ‘ere, I take. You are tired. Long day, eh? And ‘ow is Mini?” 

She passes over Matty, who seems not to mind at all being treated like just another piece of luggage. “We’re not calling her that.” At first, Susan had interpreted “Minnie” as another bit of mouse-related punnery, after Aldo’s own childhood nickname. Then she’d realized that Aldo could never, ever pass up a car reference. And that even “topolino” was a goddamn Fiat. 

“I know. I ‘ave many good suggestions.”

“Are there any that aren’t cars, drivers, or race circuits?” She doesn’t even have to wait for an answer to that. “She’s okay. Making herself known.” They’d had the 20-week sonogram just before she left, which this kid has apparently taken as her cue to start bopping around non-stop.

Out in the parking lot, it’s very, very obvious which vehicle is theirs. “Aldo, this is not what I meant when I said you should take a safe car!”

Aldo unlocks the silver Ferrari, adopting his most innocent expression. “Is safe. There is child seat. Matty is fine. Also I ‘ave crashed this model before and I am still alive.”

Sometimes she just has to stand and stare until he gets the message. And hope that Matteo will never inherit his father’s tendencies toward reckless driving and head injuries.

“It was joke. I am being very careful, Susan. And okay, next time I take dorky SUV with no legroom.”

Matty babbles to him in what might be sleepy English-Italian babytalk as Aldo secures him in his seat and kisses his forehead. Settling into her own seat, her back and hips starting to experience that familiar second trimester ache, Susan vaguely wishes that Aldo could simply carry and look after her in the same way. Or maybe that her perception of the world would narrow, like Matty’s, to nothing more than the warmth and safety of the present.

“In a few months I’m going to be leaving you with two kids,” she says as Aldo gets in and closes the door. “Don’t make me worry more about you than about Nazis on skis.”

“Two is no problem.” His hand lingers on her swollen belly as he leans in to kiss her. “Maybe three is tricky. I only ‘ave so many ‘ands.”

 _Three…_ “God, someone save me from your hands.” The merest touch is triggering that same, persistent aching desire that got them here in the first place, the kind of desire that erases any memory of birth control or job requirements or the entire outside world.

Her fingers are in his hair, his sunglasses falling between the seats as he kisses her like these three weeks have been three years, his hand inevitably moving upward to cup her full, heavy breast, stroking the already-hard nipple as a deep warmth pulses between her legs. 

“Aldo…” She tries to think of him the way he’d been that very first time he’d picked her up from the airport, the way she’d thought of him then: pushy, handsy, rude as fuck, and not the kind of man she’d ever let kiss her, let alone put a baby inside her. And yet. “Aldo, we’re adults. We’re parents.”

“Yes?”

“We cannot be fucking in your car with our son in the back seat.”

A flicker of scorn passes over his face, as if she’s being an unbelievable prude, but it soon turns into amusement. “Please, no cursing. Our son is in the back seat.”

She must fall asleep on the drive to the hotel, because they’re there in no time, Aldo grabbing bags and a small boy, and letting the over-eager valet take the car away. The lobby is filled with people in branded team gear, talking loudly in English, French, and Italian. More than a few of them say hello to Aldo and coo over Matty, and Susan smiles and shakes the hands of people whose names she doesn’t catch, not even sure what language they’re speaking amid the general din of conversation. 

“Work’s going well?” she asks when they get to the blissful quiet of their room.

“Eh, is all fine. Matty loved the track. The pits. Big scary engine noise. An’ yes we ‘ad earmuffs.”

“I never know if you do absolutely nothing, or are just so good at it, it looks like nothing.”

Aldo shrugs. “Says super spy lady spending three weeks looking out of window. Is all ‘urry up and wait, no?”

She takes a shower while Aldo gets Matty into his PJs and into bed. Obviously she has Aldo’s job to thank for the plush, spacious suite free from the mold, rats, and bizarre phantom noises she’s come to expect from the CIA’s accommodation department. A suite that thankfully means Matty has his own room. When she’s done, both relaxed and revived by the hot water, wrapped in a genuinely fluffy bathrobe, Aldo is sprawled out on the bed in sweatpants and one of those freebie team t-shirts, clicking through TV channels.

“Allo, wet and sexy lady.”

It would have been hard to feel less sexy over the last few weeks - cold, tired, her body never under less than three layers of clothes as she became bigger, heavier, slower. But the instant Aldo’s gazing at her with those intense, hungry eyes, she at least begins to think that she _might_ be, just a little, even if it’s in the opinion of a man who was crazy enough to marry her.

“How many numbers did you get today?” she asks, climbing onto the bed to sit next to him.

“Numbers?”

“Mm… You’re hanging out with thousands of people, looking all like you do, tall and handsome, expensive clothes, cute little boy on your shoulders… Don’t tell me no girls gave you their number.”

Aldo taps off the TV and rolls over toward her, his expression earnest. “Susan, you know I am yours.”

She does. She really does. “Not answering the question, flyboy.”

“Let us say… More than one. Why do you ask this?” He finds the end of the cord and pulls, parting her robe.

“Because not only have I been given zero numbers, I actually repel men these days. One look at me and they fly backward twenty feet.”

Aldo’s looking at her, though, as her robe falls open, looking at her in the way that had kept her sane when she was pregnant with Matty and freaking out about her changing body. One of the few truly smart things she’s done in her life just might be marrying a man who can’t get enough of her breasts, no matter how little they can be described as “perky” these days.

“Is good? Sensitive?” he asks, cupping her right breast.

“Is good. You better make up for three weeks of abstinence.”

His thumb rubs over one nipple, his breath hot against the other. “You’re not ‘ungry? The room service isn’t bad.”

“Honestly? I need this more.” 

His mouth quirks with a smile as he backs up to tug his shirt up over his head. “One day you will choose food over me, an' I will be ‘eartbroken.”

Sometimes, on nights she’s not so bone-weary, she likes to take control, dominate, pin him down and make him come for her. But on these nights, tired and needy, his child filling out her belly, she’s so grateful that he’s happy to ravish and adore her at the drop of a hat. He massages her breasts, licking cautiously around a nipple, then sucking it into his mouth when she doesn’t squirm in discomfort. Suddenly every breath is another flow of pleasure from her breasts to her groin and she casts out a hand, finding his dick through his pants.

“Is not the same,” Aldo says, and she knows him well enough not to immediately assume he’s talking about one of her many failings. “You are not repelling men. You are undercover, you are sending out ‘don’t look at me, don’t touch me’ vibes. Tomorrow night, we go to party, every man will beg to drop to 'is knees an' pleasure you.”

“What’s tomorrow night?” This is her first time at a grand prix weekend, but she’s pretty sure Aldo would’ve mentioned if they involved orgies.

“Maybe victory party, if we are lucky.” Aldo sits up to shimmy out of his sweatpants, his dick a nice, thick weight that settles into her grasp when he moves back. “My, eh, my parents are 'osting one an' I promise no terrorists or arms dealers will be ruining our night.”

“Your parents?”

Aldo pauses, suddenly shy. “My, eh, my therapist’s idea. You approve? I talk with my mum an’ Stefano and… Is not legal thing, you know, but ‘e has always been the dad I wanted. An’ the granddad I want Matty and Mini to have.”

“Still not calling her that.”

His hand feels her belly. “I think she is kicking. She want to say Papà ‘as great idea.”

“Papà has brain damage. How’s your head, by the way?” The first year after London, he’d regularly been plagued by headaches, dizziness, and an inability to concentrate on much that was more intellectually taxing than playing with her boobs. But he’s been doing better since, or she would never have felt confident leaving him alone with Matty or, more importantly, a fleet of sports cars. 

“Is fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m saving the world while growing a whole person in my uterus, and you’re-”

“Explaining pit stop strategy to toddler. Yes, is good point.”

She caresses his head, stirring up slicked-back dark locks. There are a few too many scars hidden beneath them. “Actually that sounds pretty complicated.”

“Is very complicated,” he admits between planting kisses on her belly. “But often strategy seems to be decided by toddler also, so kind of makes sense. You like to come now?”

During her first pregnancy, his constant desire for her had taken a lot less getting used to than her constant, deep, primal need for him. She was supposed to be sick, tired, sore, and aggravated by the horndog who had got her that way. It was borderline embarrassing, borderline ridiculous how much her body had been pumped full with some DTF hormone that could override any rational thought. Back then it had been very, _very_ useful to have Aldo working from home on doctors’ orders, and very, _very_ frustrating whenever she had to head out to dismantle cartels and save democracy. She’s learned by necessity how to tamp down that need, but when his naked body is pressed to hers, it instantly floods back. Which all explains how he brings her off with his fingers in under a minute, barely stroking her clit as his tongue circles a nipple, and then she’s arching against him, swallowing back a cry, her fingers painfully tight in his hair. 

“Brava ragazza,” he says softly, _good girl_ , and the next thing she knows he’s eating her out, a hand on the swell of her belly in a display of possessive pride she finds unbelievably erotic. 

Now that he’s taken the edge off, she can enjoy this for longer. To think she once believed his mouth was only really good for untying knots and a whole lot of cringeworthy flirting. Now she could sink into this kind of warm, languid pleasure forever, knowing that Aldo might never be more content than he is when he’s wrapped in the taste and scent of her, with no sense of impatience or urgency. When she comes again, her orgasm is deep, long, and blissful. “Oh god, I love you…” She’s not even sure she says the words aloud. The only thing she’s sure is real is her finger twisting a loop in the gold chain around his neck, teasing him up.

He leans over her to kiss her, stroking her hair back from her face, his half-hard dick nudging her belly. “I can, like this?” he asks. “Is comfortable for you?”

What’s comfortable is not having to think about moving. “I’m good,” she says, when what she really wants to do is press up against him and beg him to finally, finally fuck her. 

_He’s so beautiful when he doesn’t talk._ That might, might have been something she’d told Nancy after that first night Aldo had stayed over and they’d eaten Thai food in bed and tried to remember exactly who died when in _The Departed_ , back when she was still a little embarrassed about screwing around with Aldo, of all people. But when she sees him in unguarded moments - sprawled out asleep in bed, puzzling over his grandmother’s handwritten recipes in the kitchen, or playing the piano with an enthralled Matty on his lap - it’s clear just how much of his life he’s spent trying to force himself into other people’s boxes - not being 6’4 by age fifteen, not being Italian at an English boarding school, not being the spymaster’s son…

Because when he doesn’t have to make deliberate choices about how he talks or acts, when he doesn’t deflect all interest through outrageous flirting or self-deprecating jokes, he is so disarmingly, blatantly handsome it makes her heart hurt.

She plays with her breasts, watching him work himself hard, rolling his foreskin over the swollen tip of his dick that’s already slippery with precum, a tip he then nudges and slides between her folds, his thighs under hers. “I missed this,” he says, breathing deeply, “I missed you.”

He eases inside her slowly, but she still has to swallow back the long moan of pain-pleasure that rises. “God, that’s deep.”

“Too much?”

“No, just…” He’s a too-thick, too-stiff relentless presence inside her that her body hasn’t felt in weeks, and back then her body wasn’t _this_ body, exactly. “Stay. Just give me a minute.”

Aldo stays, a soothing thumb stroking around her clit, his other hand feeling the softness and weight of her breast. His dick twitches inside her.

It’s still a little uncomfortable when she grabs at his hip and makes him move, but she can bear him _not_ moving even less, and arousal overtakes discomfort soon enough as he rocks inside her and she unconsciously parts her legs wider, moving with him. 

_Would you like something from me?_ She’s wondered more than a few times what would’ve happened if she’d just, through need or frustration or sheer stubborn contrariness, said yes to him that very first time. Because god knows she’s done a one-eighty when it comes to his dick and how much she wants it. Now she’s just so deeply, pleasantly full of him, her body can barely contain all the pleasure she’s feeling. 

She reaches down to rub herself when he starts moving faster, gripping her legs harder, and he’s looking at her - the way her breasts bounce as he fucks her, her belly growing their child, her gaze fixed on his - like a man stunned, so much so that she would ask him if he was okay, if his head hurt, except that she is so, so fucking close and… His hips jerk against her _hard_ and she’s coming again, overwhelmed with the waves of her climax as her cunt clenches around him and he spills out inside her, shaking and gasping her name.

Her belly tightens too, her swollen womb contracting with her orgasm in a way that might hurt if she wasn’t so absolutely awash with endorphins, Aldo’s hand covering hers as they feel her body pulse and tense.

Afterward, he switches off the light and gathers her in his arms, spooning her amid a mess of blankets she’s too warm and comfortable to bother rearranging. Their lovemaking had felt deafening inside her head, but there’s no angry knock at the door or little boy clambering in between them, demanding stories and snuggles. Just Aldo fighting to get his breath back, his arms wrapped around her - one hand again on her belly, another full of her breast. 

“It’s still early,” she says, after they’ve gone a long, long time without speaking. “You should eat, see your friends…”

Aldo kisses her ear. “You know I always ‘ave your back, Susan Cooper.” It’s another long moment before he asks the question that always needs to be asked: “Are you leaving again? Soon?”

Right now she would happily ignore the entire mustered force of the CIA just to stay right here in this bed with him. “Hope not. They can probably find someone a little less pregnant to tackle next-gen pirates in the South Seas. But who knows? Elaine might have a gang of Lamaze assassins I need to infiltrate.”

“I ‘ave idea. Actually two ideas. Informant of mine tells me there is young man who suspects there may be monster under ‘is bed. Maybe in cupboard also. I recommend long-term stakeout to assess the situation.”

“Monsters are high on the agency’s list of serious stuff,” she agrees solemnly. “There would have to be so, so many reports. Maybe I’d have to call in a retired MI6 operative to assist.”

Aldo tweaks her nipple. “Perhaps we say ‘former’ rather than ‘retired,’ eh? I am _younger_ than you.”

“Tell that to your gray hairs. What’s your other idea?”

“You ‘ave been top agent for years now. Is about time you ‘ad better cover story. Something with bit more glamour an’ excitement. An’ since motorsports is old industry based on nepotism, is only right I get you a job.”

She has to admit there is some appeal to following a world of millionaires, beautiful cars, gorgeous people, and absolutely no dental surgery. “You’re going to have to teach me everything. From scratch.”

His fingertips lightly tap her belly. “I think you already figured out some things…”

“About cars, Aldo. About pit stops and chicanes and safety delegates and all those reports you keep stacking up on the couch.”

“Is easy. We go to race tomorrow, I-” He suddenly presses his hand more firmly against her. “Was that a kick? A real one?”

Susan yawns. She’d hoped the baby might be as knocked out as she is. “Our spy baby knows Morse code. You tap, she taps back.”

“Huh.” Aldo props himself up on an elbow, train of thought completely forgotten as he becomes engrossed in the mysteries of her belly, searching for another hint of movement.

“You do know what we have to call her, right? No ‘Mini Cooper,’ no cars or terrible puns. There was one woman who brought us together.”

“Eh, is your call, but I do not think naming baby girl after Rayna Boyanov is smart decision.”

She’d smack him if she had the energy. “Okay, smartass, who told you to come meet me, the first time?”

He groans. “Oh, very pleasant memory. Angry English lady calls me all, ‘cor blimey, wake up Aldo,’ as if I am not already awake an’ standing on pavement in my pants after Maria threw me out ‘cause ‘er boyfriend… But maybe this is not your point.”

“Well it is now.”

“She say good work on watching De Luca at the casino last night, which is ‘ow I met Maria the croupier in the first place. But now she say, ‘Aldo, go pick up lady from airport and don’t take flashy car’ like I am Uber driver. I ask, ‘Is she pretty lady?’ And she say, ‘Absolutely, so sexy you’ll have to fight off all the men slobbering over her like dogs.’ So I put clothes on and get old Alfa with stupid clutch and… Okay, I do not really believe her, but I go to airport and meet, eh, Penny like a penny, with those bosoms and beautiful green eyes and, oh, too late, I am in love.”

She hadn’t believed it the first time he said it. Had doubted the next dozen or so. But now she knows some things are very, very complicated when it comes to her husband, and some are very, very simple. 

“Penny like a penny,” she echoes, testing out the words as the baby rolls within her, under Aldo’s protective hand. 

Well, maybe Nancy won’t be too mad about settling for a middle name.


End file.
